


Life is a Theatre Set

by phantomreviewer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Fluff, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Stage Door, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 12:00:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3568844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomreviewer/pseuds/phantomreviewer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was strange being backstage without Enjolras. For a year the man had been everywhere; on the posters on the tube and on the sides of buses, on the stage and in the dressing rooms, on twitter and draped over Grantaire’s shoulders after cast nights out. Eventually he’d worked his way into Grantaire’s heart too. It was almost inevitable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life is a Theatre Set

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [here for you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3564617) by [nightswatch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightswatch/pseuds/nightswatch). 



> I prompted **nightswatch** with Enjolras/Grantaire as actors at the stage door, and then in a display of bad form proceeded to write a fill myself as well but swapping around the scenario. (You can read the excellent original fill from the link provided!)
> 
> (I have other fic, as well as term papers and a dissertation to be writing, but I was suddenly inspired. Enjoy.)
> 
> Title from the quote _"Life is a theatre set in which there are but few practicable entrances"_ from the Brick.

It was strange being backstage without Enjolras. For a year the man had been everywhere; on the posters on the tube and on the sides of buses, on the stage and in the dressing rooms, on twitter and draped over Grantaire’s shoulders after cast nights out. Eventually he’d worked his way into Grantaire’s heart too. It was almost inevitable.

It hadn’t seemed that way at first, with the awkward collection of circuit swings, talent show rejects and the fresh faced youths of drama school thrust into the leading roles. There had been more than one argument in the dressing rooms on the topic of professionalism, integrity and talent. However no-one could have predicted the chemistry that had sprung up between the cast and Grantaire had been thrust into a theatre family, the like he hadn’t known since university. He’d always enjoyed his job, but he’d found himself happier generally and not just while he was pretending to be someone else.

And gradually he and Enjolras had grown closer and more comfortable. They’d been private conversations legs swinging from the stage, and cake before the matinee, until one night they’d finally kissed in the stolen minutes of the interval, still in costume, when Grantaire was stealing a cigarette break against the stage door.

Enjolras had complained about coughing before Grantaire could point out that it was technically a vape, but had kissed him again before dashing back in to straighten his make-up. And that had been that.

And for the best part of a year that was how it continued. Small things changed; Grantaire got boosted up to emergency cover, Enjolras grew out his hair, they sold out their initial run and Grantaire tentatively asked Enjolras to move in with him. They’d been discussing it, somewhat seriously when the offer came in.

Enjolras had never expected to stay for more than a year, but it was unexpectedly painful to have their last performance together, even if they’d never shared the stage alone. It was a good role that Enjolras had landed, he’d made his impact on the theatre world loud and clear, and it was a national tour. Grantaire had never contemplated leaving.

Enjolras had kissed him goodbye and send him postcards from every venue. The latest of these was a simple seaside scene and read in Enjolras’ loopy handwriting, ‘I’ve been offered the part in the new show at the Fitzwilliam, if that offer of a flatmate is still standing x’. Grantaire had tucked it alongside the others and texted Enjolras with congratulations and confirmation on the day of the final show of the tour.

Even after five months it was strange to be backstage without Enjolras.

He’d been on as emergency cover; Bossuet with his constant good fortune had come down with stomach flu only his second night as first cover, so Grantaire had been boosted up a notch again. Normally he was out the door and away in good time, but it always took longer to work his way out of the various accoutrements of a leading role. And he loved it, he really did, but gods he hated the wig.

This hair was a nightmare at the best of times, and after freeing it from a wig-cap there was no hope for it at all. Try as costume and make-up did they count tame it, so Grantaire was left to his own devices with it. He looked at himself in the mirror with hair wild for a moment – he could just pull up his hood or tie up his hair in a knotted bun, but his hair and his port-wine stain across his jaw were part of his branding, and there’d be at least one person waiting by the stage door who might want to see him. And at least one of them would probably want a photo, so he tried to tame his hair

It wasn’t vanity, it was fact. Oh there had been days back when he first started in the company when people had just let him pass, and hadn’t given him a second glance, but between his romance with Enjolras, the growing popularity of the show and whoever’s bright idea it was to have an official backstage twitter account, his was attracting more attention at the door these days. And he had been playing a lead.

The could hear the gaggle of the crowd as he signed out, good naturedly rolling his eyes at Dahlia behind the desk before stepping out into the cold night air. It was always a shock to the system after the warmth of the dressing rooms.

He could hear Bahorel talking animatedly to someone, but before he’s quite stepped out of the theatre he hear a tentative voice say, “Mister Grantaire”, and he looks down.

They look the siblings, the pair of them tentatively clutching at their programmes and looking up at him like they can’t quite believe they spoke, the boy has a lisp, and the girl won’t quite meet his eyes. They can’t be more than nine, and Grantaire thinks that they’re probably twins.

Their mother looks awkward as she takes the photo of the three of them, Grantaire crouching down to wrap an arm over each of their shoulders, but she thanks him heartily for humouring her children after he’s scrawled a message to both of them in their programmes. He’s telling the truth when he tells her that it really is a  pleasure, and she compliments his performance before steering her tired brood back towards home, even as she admits that she doesn’t really understand the theatre.

“Sorry, excuse me, you were really good. I was so excited when I heard that you were the emergency cover and I'd get to see you!”

The girl who’s spoken is obviously the elected spokesman of the group that’s been waiting patiently; all laden down with merchandise and one of them has a birthday badge pinned to her jacket – 22.

“Well, someone has to do it, don’t they?”

It wasn’t funny, but still the gaggle laughs, nervously and the birthday girl asks him to sign her programme while her friends talk animatedly around them, he adds in a few  _xxx_ ’s to his scrawling R of a signature. They’d seen in before, years ago apparently, when he still did Shakespeare, the opening opportunity for any young hack of an actor, and one of them mentions his Richard III. He’d been quite proud of that role, he wouldn’t go back to it now, it was too much of a dark place in his life, but he’d been happy with his performance back then.

The chattering behind him dies some somewhat, but t he’s got his arm around the birthday girl – whose name, he’s been told, is Emily – who’s friends gave her a non-so-subtle push, while another fumbles over her phone, he pretends that he doesn’t see her hands shaking. And really, he’s not that important.

“Sorry, I can’t make it focus.” The girl looks up and away from her camera just as Grantaire feels a something brush against his cheek, the birthday girl doesn’t seem the type to do anything except smile and shake for a photograph. In contrast Bahorel has been uncomfortably quiet behind him.

He’s a nightmare for posting unflattering photos on the official twitter account, and pranking the lighting guys, and once wearing Cosette’s floral bonnet on stage for no reason, he’d got in trouble for that one. But Bahorel is a force to be reckoned with and Bahorel cannot be trusted. He’s going to pander to the fans, he loves them. The girl taking the photo has bitten her lip to contain her laughter, and Grantaire is just waiting for her to be done so he can drop his smile and turn, when someone presses a kiss to his cheek.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist,” says Enjolras smiling brightly in the dull light, his cheeks ruddy with the cold, and poor Emily looks like she’s about to faint. Enjolras gently lifts her programme from out of her hands. “Want me to sign this too to make up for it?”

She nods, dumbstruck, and Grantaire can sympathise with her, eyes tracking Enjolras taking a pen from his pocket and slipping the cap off with his teeth. They were supposed to be meeting on Sunday. Enjolras had never even hinted that he’d be here.

Enjolras’ photo is still used in the promotion images; they’re due to be reprinted in a month’s time with Marius instead. He hands it back, his signature next to Grantaire’s.

“There you go, sorry for interrupting your evening.”

And Enjolras, the beautiful idiot, has even brought his own programme – Grantaire wouldn’t be surprised if he’d bought it at the front of house rather than just bringing his own copy, how Enjolras kept this a secret Grantaire will never know- and the handful of people still waiting for photos and autographs and other cast members laugh as Grantaire takes it, plucks the pen out of Enjolras’ hand and signs it. He exaggerates the complicated spelling of Enjolras’ name, sticking his tongue out as the writes and vocalising each letter.

He talks as he writes:  “Hope you enjoyed the show, all my love, Grantaire.”

He signs off with a flourish and the ink smudges against his hand, but Enjolras just smiles, soft and warm and quiet, as though they weren’t standing on the street and takes back his signed programme.

There are enough long term fans waiting at the door to recognise Enjolras, even if Enjolras had come quietly and with his hair hidden, and there’s a sudden flash of phones which had previously been in pockets. The photos that people are taking are hardly as secretive as they’d hope and Grantaire is sure that they’ll be on twitter in moments, but that’s okay. It wasn’t a secret that they got together during their joint run in the show, it had popped up on Twitter every now and then and fans occasionally asked him about Enjolras at the door, it wasn’t necessarily a problem. And Enjolras, who normally like to box up his life into professional and private, had been the one to kiss him in public. No, Grantaire doesn’t mind at all, this is just a surprise. A wonderful one.  

He echoes Enjolras’ smile back to him, light and happy, before turning to the waiting crowd.

Enjolras slips back into actor mode easily, signing and smiling and taking photos. There’s a small flare of happiness in Grantaire’s stomach that Enjolras has slotted so easily back into this life, of course he’d never left the stage, and he wasn’t coming back to the role, but he belongs to completely to this moment. And this moment involves Grantaire.

Enjolras keeps close to Grantaire, never wandering far to take photos, making sure to talk to everyone who wanted, although for perhaps the first time at the stage door there are more people who want to talk to Grantaire than Enjolras. Not surprising since Enjolras hasn’t technically been a member of the company for months now.

Grantaire has no desire to rush off, it’s late, but he has a job that he loves, and people who admire him, and Enjolras. He has Enjolras.

Eventually however, the pavement outside the stage door empties, and Enjolras tugs Grantaire’s bag from his back and swings it onto his own shoulder. He offers his hand almost tentatively, and Grantaire can’t bring himself to be ashamed of how tightly he holds on.

“I know you’ve been told, but you were great this evening,” Grantaire’s shrug is interrupted by Enjolras’ determined tug on his hand drawing him closer towards him, “No, really. I’m glad I got to see you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was coming, but, it was a nice surprise?”

Grantaire can only pull up their joined hands to press a kiss to Enjolras’ fingers, unable to keep the smile from his face and unwilling to try.

“Yes, yes it was. Are you coming home now?”

Enjolras smiles and tightens his fingers against Grantaire’s own, letting Grantaire lead him back to his little flat automatically.

“Yes I am.”

(It transpires that Emily has a twitter account, and about a week later a recovered Bossuet hoots with laughter and dashes into Grantaire’s dressing room waving about his tablet. She’s tweeted in a cropped version of that photo, with Enjolras’ lips pressed to his cheek and a quizzical frown on his own face. Emily has cropped herself out of that first photo that Grantaire is shown so it’s just the two of them, but later on sees the progressive series of shots with the original blurry photo of the two of them before Enjolras emerges over his shoulder and pulls a silly face behind him and Emily. Enjolras favourites the link and Grantaire is ribbed good naturedly for the photos of course, but still he prints out the first one, and it finds pride of place on his dressing room mirror.)

**Author's Note:**

> It's an unnamed show, but this is hypothetically set in a universe in which The Hunchback of Notre Dame never got a Disney adaptation and instead had the popular cultural appeal of Les Mis. Which makes Grantaire emergency cover Quasimodo, Bahorel in the role of Clopin, and, Enjolras who naturally used to play Phoebus. I may have given this slightly more thought than I said I had. ~~Musichetta as Esmeralda, Cosette as 1st cover. Please imagine Marius as Phoebus literally falling in love with Cosette right there on stage as no one told him that there’d be a cover on that day, and she’s beautiful, and damn, what’s his line…? It’s a very different show that night.~~ **ETA:** I'm aware there have been multiple adaptations of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, but none of them have become a musical phenomenon and recognised franchise, in the same way that Les Mis has.


End file.
